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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30097431">Late Heavy Bombardment</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/regaining/pseuds/regaining'>regaining</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Late Heavy Bombardment [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Gaya Sa Pelikula (Web Series), Gaya sa Pelikula (Web Series) RPF, Ian Pangilinan - Fandom, PangPang - Fandom, Paolo Pangilinan - Fandom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - High School, Fluff and Angst, High School, M/M, Playlist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 22:28:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,973</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30097431</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/regaining/pseuds/regaining</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s 1999. Everyone’s worried about exploding computers come New Year; Paolo’s worried about navigating his last year of High School and getting into the UP College of Music. Enter Ian.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ian Pangilinan/Paolo Pangilinan, TanTan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Late Heavy Bombardment [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2297705</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>62</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>68</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Our Cosmonaut</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I made a playlist for this one, too, like in my first story. This is like if the characters' cassette tapes got accidentally melted down into one hybrid mixtape. Roughly: half violin pieces (Pao) and half 90s goodness (Ian) <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6oN6dFHZoz6qjx0NZ9seJ1?si=7QF57OdSQxmXhhi3_LQFFA">Late Heavy Bombardment: A Companion Playlist</a></p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Ube halaya and acacia trees.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h3> I. Our Cosmonaut</h3><p>The first time Paolo saw, heard, and touched a violin (that he can remember) was when he was six years old. His birthday. It was the same year he got measles and wasn’t allowed to go out for two whole weeks—an eternity to the boy, who was only starting to discover the joys of climbing (and falling from) trees, digging dirt, and actually reading books, under trees while digging dirt. </p><p>Thankfully, he got better by the time his birthday rolled around, in early May. He liked his birthday because that’s the only time his Mama would buy him his favorite <em>ube</em> cake. A flavor no one else in his family liked, except his grandmother, his Mama’s Mama. On certain Christmases and reunions, he and his <em>Lola</em> would share a small tin of <em>ube halaya. </em> As soon as the gift-giving started, after everyone had stuffed their faces from the <em>noche buena</em> food, his <em>Lola</em> would tap his cheek and hand him a small fork. Together, they’d eat from the tin while watching the others <em>ooh</em> and <em>aah</em> over their presents. </p><p>For his sixth birthday, his <em>Lola</em> prepared a different gift. She walked to the center of their living room, placed a stool, and sat down. Then she opened an odd-looking box; it was shaped like a small guitar. She gingerly cradled the “guitar” between the right side of her neck and with a wand-looking implement, started to play. He was told much later that his <em>Lola</em> played with the Philippine Philharmonic Orchestra, and was its first female concertmaster, the head of the string section. She gifted him with a violin solo of Gershwin’s <em>I Got Rhythm.</em></p><p>To the young Paolo, it was the most magical experience. He couldn’t only hear what his <em>Lola</em> was playing; he could feel it, too. Literally. The vibrations from the instrument seemed to envelop him, a most comforting blanket. And when he learned to play it himself the sensation became both gentler and yet more intense, if such a thing were even possible. I Got Rhythm was the first piece he learned.</p><p>-----</p><p>It wasn’t that Paolo wasn’t friendly. He was! But what to do when your first language is spoken through your hands, through a piece of wood and a bow? How to ask a group of kids to join in their game of <em>patintero</em> when your words are dappled with music, your head full of notes and notations? The words find their way to his lips, but by the time they do, his potential playmates have already gone, off to where their attention fixes itself next.</p><p>Paolo made do. In the slow, humid days of summer, when kids are exhaled out of their schools and houses, he would listen to violin concertos pressed on vinyls given to him by his grandparents, using an old phonograph his Papa bought from a second-hand store in Manila. In the mornings, his <em>Lola</em> would sit with him in their living room, and teach him how to play the violin.</p><p>In the afternoons, after his nap, he would venture out. His favorite tree to climb was a particularly leafy acacia a few streets away. He would go way up until all he could see were the tops of everyone’s houses. The other kids avoided that tree, believing it to be haunted since it cast a particularly menacing shadow at night. For Paolo, it was heaven. He could stay up there for hours with a book and a hand-me-down Walkman full of his own recordings of the violin pieces that the phonograph played. If he could only drag that clunky <em>armoire</em> of an appliance up the tree, he totally would.</p><p>His parents, bless their hearts, loved Paolo immensely and were nothing if not deeply encouraging of his musical gifts. Of his seemingly inherent quietness, they were nurturing, never pushing him to “make friends” or “be nice to the other kids.” He heard his Mama once call him “my gentle ermine.” He didn’t know what an ermine was, but the fond look his Mama gave him and the way she ruffled his hair when she said it told Paolo it must be something good.</p><p>When Paolo tugged on his Mama’s blouse one Sunday at the newly-opened Megamall, and pointed at a music store/school, his Mama enrolled him right away. That, plus the informal lessons he had with his <em>Lola</em> framed Paolo’s entire childhood, and by the time he graduated from elementary school, you could say his violin playing had left the realm of amateur child’s play and had entered a kind of semi-polished adolescence, something that was on the precipice of perfection. </p><p>-----</p><p>High School, in a word, was <em>intractable.</em> His grade school was smaller, more intimate. His teachers and his classmates there were accustomed to Paolo’s silences, the spaces between his thoughts and his words. More importantly, Paolo was used to them. He knew their names, their faces, he was used to his quirks being…unacknowledged by them. He was so used to it, in fact, that he had hoped for a change. Maybe, he himself could be different in high school. </p><p>He quickly discovered that High School demanded your voice. Everyone wanted to speak, to speak first and the loudest. To choose to be quiet is to be forgotten. During that first day of orientation, freshman year, their homeroom adviser called out each student to the front of the class and asked them to say three things: 1. Name, 2. Where they went for grade school, 3. What job they want to have. </p><p>He tried to speak loudly, and clearly. He did! But as soon as the teacher called out, “Pangilinan?” his lips found a mind of their own, his voice fell into its familiar decibel, just a notch above a whisper. </p><p> “What’s that? Can you speak up please?” A few snickers from his classmates. Paolo tried again and got it all out, eventually. Sitting back down on his chair, he could feel every pair of eyes in the room look at him and move away from him at the same time. He sighed, twirling his ID lace around his fingers. It wasn’t the thought that maybe things wouldn’t change in this new school that hurt him, it was the thought that he looks like he's about to fail to make the change.</p><p>As if that wasn’t torture enough, he had to do it the entire day, answer questions in front of everyone, in each of his eight classes, to different teachers, with varying questions. <em>What are you expecting from Math class? What’s your favorite book? Sino ang iyong paboritong bayaning Pilipino? What’s your favorite Bible verse? </em> It struck Paolo as odd, answering all these questions. Would his teachers really memorize each of their answers? Would his classmates remember each other’s responses? When lunchtime rolled around, he stayed rooted in his seat while everyone else trooped to the cafeteria. He took out the sandwich Mama made for him and ate alone. </p><p>By the time classes ended at 4, Paolo was by himself again. Apparently, some of his classmates knew each other from grade school, while others appeared to have formed their own groups in the nine hours they just spent. He wasn’t surprised that none of them talked to him at length. In a way, maybe it suited him just fine, but a part of him wondered what it would be like to be among those in the crowds, laughing with their friends, sharing cups of ice scramble or <em>kwek-kwek.</em> </p><p>Falling into old habits, Paolo found himself walking around his new school with no particular destination in mind. One of the things he liked about it is that it’s not just a high school, but a university. His parents met here, during the 70’s, and fell in love here. The campus is much larger than his old school, with wide tree-lined spaces and benches for studying. He listened to his parents’ stories about their college life here that he found himself walking around the places they talked about—here, where they first met; on that building, where they xeroxed an underground publication to protest Martial Law. Paolo made a mental note to tell them about what he’d seen.</p><p>His dad promised to pick him up around 5:30, so he had plenty of time, too, to sit around and write on his notebook. Lately, he’d been trying to compose music; nothing enormous, just something for him to play and practice with. His <em>Lola</em> gave him a thick notebook. ‘Not for school, <em>apo</em>. For you, your thoughts,’ she wrote on the first page.</p><p>He found a bench and table fronting the university field and started writing. </p><p>He was a few pages in, when—</p><p> “OY! Pangilinan! Hurry up!” Someone hollered from across the field. </p><p>Paolo looked up, immediately startled by the sound of his name being screamed. He saw a group of boys on the grassy field, who looked to be involved in some sort of sports training. Judging by what they were wearing, they looked like they were playing baseball. </p><p>Running towards his direction was one of the boys, wearing a backwards baseball cap and the same baseball uniform with their high school’s logo emblazoned on the front. He looked to be about Paolo’s age, and was chasing a baseball that had been pitched too hard and was rolling towards Paolo’s table. </p><p>Suddenly, and before the ball could roll completely into Paolo’s feet, the boy jumped and lunged his full body, trapping the ball between his arms. Paolo was about to stand up so he could look over the table to see if the boy is okay when the latter stood up quickly. </p><p> “Hi.” The boy grinned, lopsidedly. </p><p> “Oy! Pangilinan! <em>Bilis!</em> Stop fooling around!” An older man barked, probably their coach or something. </p><p> “Yes, Coach, coming!” the boy shouted back. </p><p>The boy turned to him before running back to his teammates. “Um. Bye!” A small wave, then he was off, the name Pangilinan in large lettering stitched on the back of his uniform.</p><p> “Bye,” Paolo said, but the boy had already been out of earshot before he could get the word out. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Sea of Tranquility</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The Other Pangilinan Boy</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h3>II. Sea of Tranquility</h3><p>“That was three years ago, doofus. I was 13,” Matt said to Paolo, who was trying to hold back laughter. “I was going through a major voice change. Ever hear of puberty?” Matt glowered at him. </p><p>“I know, but did you really have to squeak during the slow part of <em>Papuri sa Diyos?</em> And hey, I messed up my playing because of you!” Paolo explained in between bouts of snickering. “Besides, it just came to me now. Ms. Reyes was so mad!” </p><p>“Fine. Ha-ha! Get your laughs out while you can. Remind me why we’re friends again?”</p><p>Paolo met Matthew—Matt— in freshman year. They were helplessly roped into joining their school’s music club by their music teacher, Ms. Reyes. Well, ‘helplessly’ applied to Paolo specifically, who made the mistake of answering “I play the violin” to one of the Introduce Yourself questions in music class, <em>What’s your hobby?</em> Ms. Reyes looked him up and down with her half-moon spectacles and said, tersely, “See me after class.” </p><p>Matt, on the other hand, didn’t need much prodding. In the hallway leading to Ms. Reyes’ office, he could be heard singing 4 Non Blondes’ <em>What’s Up,</em> at a decibel that’s at least two notches above what’s healthy for human ears. Paolo, seated beside him in a row of auditionees, couldn’t help sneaking a glance at him, a silent plea for, well, silence. </p><p>“Sorry,” Matt said to him, no trace of apology in his voice. “Ms. Reyes needs to hear that I’m the <em>tenor </em>she needs.” And went back to singing. But that was that. The law of proximity somehow decreed that they will be friends. </p><p>They both got in the club, and Matt evidently was the tenor Ms. Reyes did need, and Paolo became the club’s violinist. The boys were in different sections, but the music club, which acts as the school’s choir, meets every Friday after classes. So in between practice sessions, the boys found a lot of time to get to know each other. </p><p>To the young Paolo, finding Matt was like having a lifeboat thrown at him in middle of a shipwreck. An extroverted lifeboat who talks a lot and has the propensity to sing at every given (or stolen) opportunity, but a lifeboat nonetheless. It didn’t take long for the two to become fast friends, with fast-talking Matt guiding if not goading the introverted Paolo into coming out of his shell, a little at a time. </p><p>-----</p><p> “I swear, you’re, like, the only high school student I know who likes to hitch a ride home with his parents. Tell me the truth, Paolo. Do you know how to commute? It’s okay if you don’t. I’ll teach you. You see, we have these things called jeeps—”</p><p>“I told you! Dad works nearby. It’s…convenient. Besides, it saves me money. Who will buy you scramble if I commute?” </p><p> “O-kay. I’m just saying. We’re 16 now. Well, you are. I am still a youthful 15—”</p><p> “Your birthday’s in a month—”</p><p> “Shush! As I was saying before you rudely interrupted me, we are on our last year of high school. Pretty soon, we’ll be in college. You did say you want to go to UP and how will you get around, huh? What if we’re in different schools?” He puts his hand to his mouth in mock horror. “How ever will you get by?” </p><p>Paolo stared blankly at Matt and slow-clapped unenthusiastically. “Hold your horses, Meryl Streep. I *have* commuted before. You were there, remember?” </p><p>“A little independence never hurt, buddy boy. Anyway, here we are at your favorite tree, old man.” Matt’s taken to calling him ‘Old Man and the Tree’ after they read Hemingway in their lit class. “I bid you <em>adieu.</em> Unlike some of us, I *have* to commute. Tomorrow, then, good Sir!” He gave Paolo a snappy salute, a stage bow, a flying kiss, and was off. </p><p>Still laughing from his friend’s antics, Paolo took out his notebook and began writing. He was telling the truth about why he wanted to hitch a ride instead of commuting. But it wasn’t entirely true. </p><p>His favorite tree—and bench—was the same one he sat on three years ago. It also provided the best vantage point of the university field. Which, for three times a week, is where their baseball team does their training. </p><p>He wouldn’t admit it, not even to Matt, but since that first day of freshman year, Paolo has been ‘watching out’ for the Other Pangilinan Boy, as Paolo had called him in his mind. He found out his name is Ian, but Other Pangilinan Boy, or OPB, was what his mind decided to call him. </p><p>Their school had 10 freshmen sections, and in four years of high school, they’ve never been classmates. The chances of them ever becoming classmates went even slimmer in junior year, when they were segregated into “career sections.” Paolo (and Matt) naturally chose the Liberal Arts/ Communication section. He doesn’t know where the OPB went. </p><p>Still, he would see him around school. He seemed to be surrounded by people all the time. He’d always be smiling, too. Something Paolo loved, er, liked about him. His laugh was both distinctive and contagious. He would hear it in the cafeteria during lunch and know instantly it was him. Something about the boy’s seemingly inherent happiness made Paolo vicariously happy, too. </p><p>Where Paolo liked seeing him best, however, was out here, in the field. Out here, the boy is pure poetry. Paolo didn’t know then the rules of baseball, but he got himself a book of baseball rules just because the boy looked like he played it well and he wanted to confirm it. As pitcher, he would stretch his right arm so extensively it looked like it would fly off his shoulder. As batter, he would twist his torso in near-impossible angles. He looked like a Greek sculpture: each sinew of him moved as it was made to move, each muscle tensing and easing as if to the beat of some internal rhythm inside the boy, a symphony the length of an inning.</p><p>He’s too far to see the boy’s face, but he imagined it steeled into determined focus, almost the opposite of how he is outside the field. Maybe he even looked like a violinist traversing through a very difficult piece that even his face is contorted a bit. </p><p>Paolo would often scribble music—notes, scales, sounds that go through his mind while he’s taking in the boy’s movements. He’s tried to make something cohesive out of it, a sonata, or violin concerto or something, but so far, the sounds are far too random to be contained. </p><p>Besides, this year, Paolo is focused on one thing: getting into the University of the Philippines College of Music. And getting there means not only reviewing academically, but also musically. Aside from his regular subjects, he enrolled in more intensive music classes to help him with his audition. </p><p>His OPB (<em>his</em> because OPB is his, right? The term, not the boy, he reasoned), if anything, is his rest from his rigorous preparations, sort of a vacation for his mind. He looked up from his notebook to see that practice had ended. In their freshmen year, the boy was usually in charge of making sure the bats are placed in their bags, the equipment stowed away. He would watch him stay behind after everyone else had gone, do some practice runs, and then gather the equipment and carry them to the High School building.</p><p>In junior and senior year, Paolo half-expected him to be the big man of their team, and lord over the younger teammates, make them do the chore of storing things away. But no. Still, now in their senior year, OPB would do his practice runs, some stretches, and a few swings at the bat before packing the things himself. Sometimes, a few of the younger team members would stay behind with him and it looked like he would teach them. 

Paolo can’t be sure, but OPB seemed like a genuinely good guy. He’s not sure why he half-expected the boy to be some sort of stuck-up jerk when he’s given no indication of being one. Paolo chalked it up to him being fed too many teen movies by Matt. </p><p>A car honk interrupted his thoughts. “Paolo! Ready to go?” His dad waved to him from their car. He saw OPB turn his head to the sound of the honk and look in their direction. Hurriedly, Paolo went to the car and closed the door. OPB went back to running through the baseball diamond on the field. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Olympus Mons</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Fr. Domeng and the Giant Eraser</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h3>
  III. <em>Olympus Mons</em>
</h3><p>When her eyes are closed tight like this, it’s difficult to tell what Ms. Reyes will say about what Paolo just played, whether she liked it or not. And the guessing game can be dangerous. Paolo thought once before that when a small smile was on her lips, it meant she liked it. But last year, she smiled at the end of his practice run of Joachim Raff’s <em>Cavatina</em> and said, “You know, they say that the orchestra of the HMS Titanic played that same piece. If I was on that ship and you played that piece, I would be on my knees begging that iceberg to hit us.” So, no, thank you. Paolo was not about to guess what she’s thinking now. </p><p>This is just an <em>etude</em> though. The Conservatory requires that all prospective applicants perform the etudes of Fiorillo as part of their audition. Paolo has been practicing the Etudes since last year. He has played them so many times that for most of them, he’s no longer reading the sheet. </p><p> “Hmm,” Ms. Reyes finally says, or mumbles, after a long pause. “I know what you’re thinking, Paolo. An etude is just a study. Something to play with. Something you use to <em>show off.</em> I can see it in your playing, I can <em>hear</em> it. I can also feel your lack of enthusiasm. I can feel you just playing from rote memory.” Paolo bows his head, listening carefully. </p><p>“You forget what music is, <em>hijo.</em> It’s the space between the words we say, it’s what we <em>can’t</em> say.” She takes Paolo’s right hand, inspecting his fingers. “You’re playing too mechanically.” She drops his hand, going back to her chair to write something on her notebook. </p><p>“No playing for the rest of week, except for choir practice.” Paolo resists the urge to protest. He’s mapped out his entire year’s schedule of preparation, he needs every practicing time he can get his hands on. The look on his teacher’s face stops him. </p><p> “You’re always on your Walkman anyway, so this is your assignment this week. <em>Listen</em>. Feel. What are these etudes telling you? What do they make you feel? Because, *I’m* telling you right now, every one of these boys and girls will be clawing their way to the Conservatory. And they will be playing the way you do. They know these etudes by heart, too. What will make you stand out, <em>Paolissimo</em>?”</p><p>Paolo’s sure though, that when she calls him Paolissimo, she wants him to remember what she’s saying. The first time he heard her use that name was first day of choir practice. Paolo was frozen solid by the fact that he was asked to play in front of all 20 members of the choir. Somehow, Ms. Reyes calmed him down enough to get through 2 hours of practice. </p><p> “That’s it for today. I will see you Friday for choir, but in the meantime, ears, Paolo, <em>entiende</em>? No hands. <em>Use your ears.</em>”</p><p>It was 7:30 p.m. when they finished. Paolo already called his dad’s office earlier to let him know practice would probably run long, and that he would commute home. He liked walking their campus at night. The usually bustling walkways are emptied of its usual occupants, and everything’s illuminated by the university’s orange lightposts. He decided to take the long way out of campus; there are more jeeps there anyway. </p><p>Listen more. <em>Of course, I’m listening,</em> Paolo thinks, taking out his Walkman. <em>My bag’s half-books, half-tapes!</em> What is he missing? Putting earphones on a bit rebelliously, he sits down a bench fronting the university’s law school and turns up the volume on his player. He closes his eyes for good measure. </p><p>He’s momentarily shaken out of Debussy’s <em>La fille aux cheveux de lin</em> by the thud of a large bag hitting the grass. He opens his eyes to see another person sit himself on the far end of the bench. Paolo can see that the person is wearing a cap, head hung low, elbows leaning on his knees. He removed one earphone from his ear. Debussy muffles on. </p><p>“Bit late for a campus sound trip, don’t you think?” the person says. </p><p>Paolo stares, a bit startled. He didn’t realize his volume was turned all the way up. “Sorry,” he says, and presses stop. </p><p> “No, no, it’s okay. It kind of suits the night, right?” The guy turns to look at him and suddenly sits upright. “Oh. H-hi,” he says, sounding surprised. A small wave. </p><p>Oh wow. OPB. “Hi.” </p><p>“We’re schoolmates, right? I’m Ian,” OPB says with a warm smile. He holds out his right hand. </p><p>Paolo swallows. “Paolo. Hi.” Whatever ounce of courage is in him tries to rush out as he adds, “We’re in the same year, um, I think.” More like <em> I know</em>. His hand is enveloped by OPB’s large hand. It feels callused, roughened probably by years of baseball.</p><p>“Yeah, I think so, too. Music practice run late?” </p><p>Paolo’s head spins. He’s not sure why OPB, er, Ian, has access to information such as his schedule. And he doesn’t dare speculate. Until his gaze falls to his violin case. <em>Ahh.</em> He sighs, then nods. </p><p>Ian speaks again. “I hear ya. Me, too. I mean, not music. Baseball,” he laughs a bit, gesturing to the bag of baseball bats at his feet. He looks at the building in front of them and echoes Paolo’s sigh. </p><p>Paolo can already imagine what Matt would say to him if he could see this. Something about taking life by the balls and charging through and <em>doing something</em>. It feels like he should say something, anything, to keep this going. Unfortunately, at that moment, his mouth decides to work before his brain. </p><p> “Maybe Fr. Domeng will pass by tonight.” Oh <em>god.</em> He’s never wanted a Giant Eraser to appear from the sky and erase him from this planet more than now. Where are you, Giant Eraser? </p><p> “Wait, what? Oh…haha! You remember that?” Ian laughs out loud. Fr. Domeng was a myth circulated by upperclassmen in their freshmen orientation. A 19th century priest, he supposedly shows himself headless to students who linger in the school at night, doomed to walk the University’s halls forever. The thought of Fr. Domeng behind him may or may not have quickened Paolo’s pace at the end of one or more music lessons. </p><p>Blushing at this intensity should be considered an extreme sport, Paolo thinks. This is more dangerous than rollerblading. Before long, he’s joining Ian in laughing. At the pit of his stomach, he’s at least thankful that Ian found it funny. </p><p> “Well, in that case,” Ian finally says after wiping tears from his eyes, “do you want to maybe help me carry these back to the HS building? I don’t want Fr. Domeng chasing me around campus!” </p><p>Feeling brave, Paolo quips back. “Well, he *is* headless, Ian. Maybe he’ll trip on a garbage can or something.” </p><p>More uproarious laughter from Ian. paolo adds, “Or, or! If anything fails, we can use these bats to knock him out.” </p><p>“Stop, stop,” Ian says in between laughs, “you’re making it hard to breathe, <em>Paopao.</em>” His eyes widen at that last part, like he wants to take it back. Paolo pretends he didn’t hear it, but something about the fact that Ian has christened him with a nickname stills his heart, then makes it hammer. He laughs, not out of humor this time, but nervous energy.</p><p>Ian reaches for the bag, stands up, then turns to Paolo. “What do you say? Want to help me vanquish Fr. Domeng?” Paolo just nods, happily. Ian hands him a smaller bag—for baseballs. </p><p>They walk to the high school building in silence, each looking around the campus. Apart from a few college students milling about, the place is quiet, too. Paolo expected awkward silence—it’s the only kind of silence he’s ever known when interacting with people—but this one was at once comforting and comfortable. The kind you could get used to. </p><p>When they reach their school’s sports equipment room, Ian turns to him, “Hey, do you live around here? I can drive you. I just got my student license. I mean, if that’s okay—if you want, that is. I’m not sure if you want that, um,” Is Ian rambling? </p><p>Unfortunately, Paolo’s mouth fails him a second time. “No, that’s okay. I take a bus home.” This, this entire exchange has been a lot already, he thinks. He’s afraid of asking for more from whichever gods allowed this to happen. This is too good already. </p><p> “Oh. Okay then,” Ian says. He walks Paolo to one of the university’s exits and waits for a jeepney with him. After a few minutes, one stops in front of them. “It was nice meeting you, uh, Paopao. <em>Ingat pauwi.</em>” Paolo smiles back. “Bye, Ian.”</p><p>On the bus home, Paolo fishes out his Walkman and plays the Etudes again. He closes his eyes, wondering how he can listen and feel the music with his heart hammering in his chest.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Eagle Nebula</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Tamagotchi, Pritos Rings, and Palancas.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h3> IV. Eagle Nebula</h3><p> “You choked, is what you’re trying to tell me.” </p><p>Ian and Jason navigated their way through the maze of tables in the school cafeteria, looking for a place to sit. Normally, they would join their teammates outside in the patio, but Ian grabbed Jason as they were heading out of World History, their class before lunch, to talk. </p><p> “I did *not* choke. Dude, we talked! I just told you.” Ian’s voice rose with each syllable as they finally found a table off to the back. They set their trays down and began working through their food. </p><p> “Let me get this straight. This is Violin Boy, right?” Death glare from Ian. “Okay, okay, Paolo then. The one boy you’ve been talking about since first year. The <strong>only one</strong> you’ve been talking about since first year, in fact. And, last Friday, you finally get the chance to talk to him and you got: one, no ride home, two, no plans to go *anywhere* and three, no telephone number. Not even a pager number. Dude. You. Choked.” </p><p>Ian wanted to wipe the smug look off of Jason’s face. Sure, they’ve been best friends since they were in pre-school, but when Jason, or J as he’s called him for as long as he can remember, breaks it down for him in this way, he’s just asking to be punched. J may be the captain of the baseball team, but Ian has the stronger punch. </p><p> “Whatever. I didn’t choke. And, and, at least I got some screen time in his life. I’m not the only one carrying a three-year crush here. What about you and that, oh, what was that name you used again—”</p><p> “Say it and you lose your balls.” </p><p>Ian raised both hands in mock surrender. Fine. “What should I do then? Are we friends now? I don’t know if I can just go up to him. What if I talk to him and he just looks at me like I’m the asteroid from Deep Impact and runs for the hills?” </p><p> “Ian, tell me. And be honest. What is it like? Being on that level of crazy? You better not take this energy to training later. I will smack your ass.” </p><p> “Ooh, kinky. Sorry, J. Only Paopao can smack this.” </p><p> “Ack. Gross. Get yourself a lobotomy, Pangilinan.” </p><p>-----</p><p>For its junior and senior years, the high school holds an ecumenical retreat. Ever since anyone can remember, this is always held in the University’s monastery in Tagaytay. And ever since anyone can remember, the students have petitioned that it be held in a place that at least has a pool. Pansol, Calamba, anywhere. But the school never budges. “It’s a retreat,” their principal once said. “Fun is not a pre-requisite.” </p><p>Since the place can only accommodate so many people, the retreat is scheduled by two sections. Last year, Paolo and Matt’s section was paired with the medical sciences section. It was kinda fun, Paolo had to admit. Between the bull sessions and open forums and frequent references to “Kuya Jess,” a nickname the priests came up for Jesus (‘because He’s your brother,’ they said), Paolo had a lot of time to himself, too. When they were not engaged in any activities, they were required to stay completely silent. A challenge for Matt, sure, but for Paolo it proved to be a respite, since they weren’t allowed to bring any gadgets. Not even a watch. </p><p> “I love retreat season, Paolo. Don't you? But I hate making these <em>palancas.</em> My hands hurt. I was writing ‘til 2am.” Matt pouted as they boarded the bus that the school chartered for the trip to Tagaytay. “And who made this rule to be extra creative with them? You know, last year, I got a floppy disk from one of our classmates. Apparently, I had to dismantle it, and hold the film against the light in order to read what it says. Paper, Paolo! Did everybody forget paper!?” </p><p>Paolo snickered as they sat down. He’s not sure if other schools did this, too, but they have a retreat tradition of handing out <em>“palancas,”</em> which are letters one writes for friends who will go on retreat. “And yet your letters are always the most creative. Didn’t you <em>sew</em> your letter to me to an empty bag of Humpty-Dumpty?” </p><p> “Eh. I’m nothing if not competitive.” Matt deadpanned. “So, which section are we paired up with, you think? I had high hopes for the med section. I thought I’d find him there.” </p><p> “Who?” </p><p> “Oh, Paolo. The One, of course. The one who would steer the course of my heart, the conquering hero of my soul, the Romeo to my Juliet.” Matt twinkled his eyes at him. </p><p>“Ah. So *that’s* why you were so sulky last year. No one from the future doctors of our batch?” </p><p> “Alas. Not one. But I’m optimistic this year, Paolo. Just you wait.” </p><p>Paolo was about to take out his Walkman when he remembered they weren’t allowed to bring any gadgets. Instead, he looked out the window and hummed a sonata in his mind, his right hand pressing an imaginary violin, his left pulling an imaginary bow. Matt looked at Paolo’s fingers and smiled before falling asleep. </p><p>----</p><p>Paolo was reading an UPCAT reviewer when the bus pulled over for its scheduled pit stop just before going up to Tagaytay. Here, the students are allowed 15 minutes to go to the bathroom and buy some snacks. He and Matt were just about to alight from the bus when the second bus, the one carrying the other section, pulled up and opened its doors. </p><p>Matt suddenly grabbed Paolo’s shoulders from the back and whispered. “What light from yonder window breaks?” and gestured to the other bus, where the students from the other section are alighting from. </p><p> “What? Matt, I will not run your lines with you.” </p><p> “Paoloooo. Look, over there. I think I found Romeo.” </p><p>Standing a few feet from them was “Romeo”. Someone who’s maybe around 5’10 or 5’11, shoulders squared, a nice contrast to his round baby face. Paolo’s eyes widened a bit when he saw that he was wearing a baseball team jacket. It wasn’t Ian, but what if he’s here, too? <em>Why didn’t I ask him his section?</em>
</p><p> “He’s perfect. Why didn’t I see him before, Paolo? Oh right. 10 sections, 50 students each. Needle. Haystack. Got it.” Matt answered his own question and gazed at the boy longingly. Paolo elbowed him before going to the restroom.</p><p>-----</p><p>The other students might think it boring, but their retreat house is beautiful. To Paolo at least. The property is perched higher than most of the houses in Tagaytay, only lower perhaps than Palace In The Sky. The actual retreat house is dotted with small manicured gardens and pine trees. The main attraction, however, is a small church that sits even higher than the house. Made almost entirely of red bricks, it also features stunning stained glass. Last year, Paolo and Matt would sit there for hours in their free time, the latter humming a bit to “test the chapel’s acoustics.” </p><p>As Matt made a beeline for the rooms to unpack, Paolo took his time just walking around the grounds. He decided that for this retreat, he was going to, in the words of Ms. Reyes, listen more. Sure, his tapes are not with him, but maybe he could listen to the sounds around him. Besides, that’s what a retreat is for, right? </p><p> “Damn it!” someone shouted from behind him. </p><p> “Mr. Pangilinan, watch your mouth!” </p><p> “Sorry, Father.” </p><p>Paolo snuck a glance behind him to see Ian crouched over his bag on the ground, with the priest who was their chaperone looking on. He looked like he was fixing it or something. <em>He’s here!</em> Anxiety shot up through Paolo like you wouldn’t believe. He mentally ran through all of the activities in the next two days that would necessitate some contact with the boy. </p><p>His feet, though, had other ideas. Before he could register what was happening, he was already walking in Ian’s direction and when he reached him, he saw that a few of the boy’s things had spilled out of his bag. Out of instinct, more than anything, he crouched down to help the boy. The priest left them to steer the other students to their rooms.</p><p>“Paopao! Hi!” Ian looked a little frazzled, and embarrassed, but Paolo smiled at him warmly. </p><p> “Hi, Ian.” He started picking up random stuff and before Ian could stop him, got a yellow Tamagotchi that had rolled farther away. He held it up to Ian, whose head was down, busy putting the rest of his things in the bag. </p><p> “Ian?” Paolo inquired in a whisper. “You know we can’t have gadgets, right?” </p><p>Ian looked up at Paolo and seeing the toy in his hand, reddened in the most adorable way. “Uh…” he grabbed it surreptitiously and pocketed it before anyone else could see. Paolo hid his laugh behind a loud cough.</p><p> “And have Kikitchi die? Not on my watch.” Ian took out the gadget and glanced at it one more time before putting it back in his pocket. <em>Kikitchi?</em> Paolo was about to say something when Ian stood up and hauled his backpack. “Ready to go?”</p><p>They walked to the retreat house together to find their rooms. Upon reaching Ian’s room, the door suddenly opened to reveal a rather stunned J. “Huh. Ian, dude. Took you long enough,” he said, not looking at him at all, but at Paolo. </p><p> “Hey. Don’t think we’ve met yet. Jason. J.” He put out his hand. </p><p>Paolo nodded to him and took his hand. His mouth took its time to work, as usual. “Pao, Paolo. Hi.” </p><p>J pointed to Paolo’s bags. “Find your room, yet? Come on, Ian and I will help you.” Turning to Ian, he said, “Dude, you didn’t even help Paolo find his room? Tsk tsk.” </p><p>Ian scratched the back of his head. “I was going to. Come on, Paopao,” he said, gently taking Paolo’s bag from him and slinging it over his shoulder. </p><p>They went back out into the hallway to find Paolo’s room. They didn’t have to search for long though, as Matt ran up to Paolo then paused to catch his breath. </p><p> “Oh thank goodness. There you are! Where have you been?” Matt started fussing around Paolo, patting him down and checking his head and hands in an exaggerated display of concern. “What did I say when going out in public? Why did you let go of my hand? Didn’t I tell you not to talk to strangers?!” Paolo’s eyes rolled to the back of his head. </p><p> “Guys, this is Matt. Sometimes he likes to play my Mom. He’s my roommate.” </p><p> “AND best friend.” Matt added a bit forcefully. “And who are these strange people?” He looked over at Ian and J. Oh. He gaped at the latter. “Oh, Romeo?”</p><p> The four stood there in the hallway, awkwardly eyeing each other.</p><p> “What?” Ian decided to break the silence that settled between them. "I’m Ian. He’s J. Hi, Matt.” He glanced sideways at J. </p><p>Matt and J still haven’t spoken, and both still stood there, transfixed on each other. </p><p> “<em>Huy. </em> Space cadet. You okay?” Paolo whispered, poking Matt’s side. The latter nodded vaguely. Paolo started dragging him away. “Ian, J. Thanks for helping me find my room. Um, bye.” Matt weakly lifted a hand to wave at the other two. </p><p>-----</p><p>Paolo was no longer surprised. It was always during one of these bull sessions that he’d find out that one person out of one <em>barkada</em> is apparently angry with the someone else in that <em>barkada</em> for something that the other one said, or did, or wrote. He stifled a yawn. It’s as if his batchmates were just waiting for their retreat to have it out with each other. He looked around the large hall where their retreat leader decided to have their session. </p><p> “I told you we were going to do <em>My Boo</em> at the pep rally! But why did you bring the <em>Mmmbop</em> tape? Whyyyy?” Shiela, his classmate whose turn it was to speak, cried. Paolo looked over at Matt, who was on the verge of falling completely asleep. </p><p>On another circle of students, at the far end of the hall, were Ian and J. To Paolo, they looked as bored out of their wits as he is. J, already half-asleep, swayed to the right, nearly hitting Ian on the shoulder. As if feeling eyes on him, Ian’s head perked up and his eyes met Paolo’s. </p><p>Quickly, Paolo averted his gaze, his cheeks red-hot. <em>Stupid eyes.</em></p><p>-----</p><p>Lights out at the retreat house is strictly set at 10pm, the retreat master going to each bedroom to check. J and Ian had prepared for this and brought flashlights. </p><p>“’Choke’ <em>pala ha?</em>” Ian chuckled. “So who gaped like a fish at Matt?” </p><p>“Shut up,” J piped up from under his blanket. </p><p>“I remember our first gala Mass, bro. When the choir sang? <em>Dude, he’s an angel. Dude, I think I’m in loooove. Duuuude, that one’s mine.</em> You talk a big game, J-man. What happened?” </p><p>J peeked out of his blanket and mumbled something. </p><p> “I’m sorry. Did you say something?” Ian turned on his side, facing J’s bed. </p><p>“Mrpf. I choked. Fine. You happy? I…but…did you see him though? Who can speak when he’s right there, staring at you? I, I…” J tried to explain some more but couldn’t. “That stare should be outlawed, bro.” </p><p>Ian laid back on his bed and sighed. Yeah, both boys’ stares should be outlawed. </p><p>J mirrored Ian’s sigh. </p><p>-----</p><p> “Maybe he doesn’t know it, yet, but he wants me, Paolo. He does,” Matt said with all the conviction of a prosecutor making his closing arguments. Paolo wanted to take his words more seriously, but it was kind of hard to do, what with Matt putting a Pritos Ring on his right ring finger. </p><p>Matt showed off the ring. “And after the wedding, you know what happens, right?” Paolo shook his head. Swiftly, Matt gobbled up his ring finger and ate the ‘ring.’ </p><p>Paolo stared at Matt, horrified, before the boys dissolved into their beds with gut-busting laughter.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I will do my part in the #TanTanRise agenda. Hehe.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Magellanic Clouds</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Gimik and T.G.I.S.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h3>V. Magellanic Clouds</h3><p>Ian had seconds to react and raise his hand as the ball whizzed by his head. Oof. J’s the team’s best pitcher, obviously, and he’s even better when he’s weighing something on his mind. Ian has suggested more than once to saddle J with a philosophical riddle or something before starting a game to really get him going. It was just the two of them in the field, a kind of ritual they have before any big game. Tomorrow, they enter into the semi-final of the inter-university championship. </p><p> “Save some for the other team, huh, J?” Ian shouted to the captain, who was shaking his throwing arm, trying to loosen it even more. He trotted over to the pitcher’s mound. “Everything okay? You’re not worried about tomorrow, are you? We can go over the game plan again if you want.” </p><p>J removed his cap and wiped the sweat across his brow. “Nah. Thanks, bro. I guess I better rest my arm, huh?” He smiled at Ian. His eyes shifted slightly to the view behind Ian and gasped. “Yo. It’s them, dude.” </p><p>Ian turned to look at what J was referring to: Paolo and Matt, on that bench. Their heads were down as they appeared to be working on something. Once in a while, Matt would point at something on Paolo’s paper and show him what’s on his. Ian started to jog towards them. </p><p> “Bro! Where do you think you’re going?” J said in a kind of stage whisper. Ian turned to him, jogging backwards. </p><p> “I’m gonna put us out of our misery. You better go with this, J.” </p><p>J started to follow him, half-running. “Ugh. What an idiot.” </p><p>-----</p><p>Paolo chewed his thumbnail nervously. Matt’s checking his Physics worksheet for any errors. UPCAT is a week and half away. He mostly has the key concepts down, but it’s remembering and applying the formulas that he’s having a little trouble with. </p><p> “There. See? You got everything right. Didn’t I tell you? This is easy!” Matt showed him back his work, a wide grin on his face. Paolo released a breath he didn’t know he was holding. </p><p>For the past few days, they did their schoolwork on Paolo’s bench. After their retreat, Paolo finally told Matt about, well, everything. About OPB, Ian, about this thing he’s been holding since he was 13. Matt was mostly happy, and partly indignant about not being told of all of this sooner. In his words, “You goofball. I could have done something about this much sooner. Ugh!” </p><p>Not-so-subtly, Matt invited himself to Paolo’s afternoon ritual. He claimed it was to help Paolo with his Physics schoolwork, but Paolo knew better. He’d seen Matt give passing glances to J whenever they would see him in campus, and not-so-subtly sigh in his direction. Sometimes, J wouldn’t hear. Sometimes, he would look in their direction, eyes wide, and scurry away. Of course, he let Matt hang out with him at the bench. Matt’s a secret Physics whiz and he needed all the help he could get. </p><p>Matt was showing him the difference between Faraday and Lenz’s Law when Ian and J ran up to their table. Slightly out of the breath, they looked like nervous acolytes meeting the Pope for the first time. J squeezed himself into Ian, like he was trying to hide behind him. </p><p>Matt looked up at them, one eyebrow raised. “Well. Isn’t this a surprise. Hello, gentlemen. Anything we can help you with?” </p><p> “Uh. Hey. Guys. Hi, Paopao. What’s up?” Ian said, trying to catch Paolo’s eye. </p><p>Matt answered for him. “I was helping our young <em>Paopao</em> here with Physics,” he said, making sure to emphasize Paolo’s nickname. “You know, UPCAT’s coming up.” </p><p>“Yeah,” Paolo finally said. “Hi Ian, J. Practice okay today?”</p><p> Ian answered. “Yeah. So, UPCAT, huh?” Paolo nodded. </p><p> “Uh, about that. Um, Paopao, how are you going to UP? I mean, are you going to commute, or—”</p><p>Paolo was about to answer when Ian spoke again, rather quickly. “I can drive you! I, well, it starts at 7, right? Might be a good idea to drive together since it’s a bit far. You might want to join us, too, Matt,” he offered. </p><p> “Oh, no. Thank you though, <em>monsieur</em> Ian,” Matt smiled sweetly. He turned his gaze to J. “Mr. J, are you driving to UP as well?”</p><p>Ian bumped J, who was still staring at Matt. “Huh? Oh, yeah, um, hi, Matt. I am. I will. Be driving, that is.” He swallowed nervously, and played with his cap between his hands. </p><p>With a flourish, Matt tore a blank page from Paolo’s worksheet and wrote something, earning a loud "Hey watch it!" from Paolo. </p><p> “Here,” Matt said, standing up and putting the slip of paper on J’s left hand. “That’s my address and number. I’ll be ready by 5:30 a.m. I’m a sucker for punctuality.” J stared at the paper then at Matt, dumbfounded. </p><p>Matt turned to Ian, “He’s the strong and silent type, isn’t he?” He gathered his belongings. “Can’t stay long, boys. Have to go home early today.” He looked at J. “You I’ll see next week. Bye!” </p><p>The three boys were left staring at the retreating figure. </p><p>-----</p><p> “Want the radio, Paopao? You can play whatever you want,” Ian told Paolo, who was buckling himself in the passenger seat. He had one of those two-door small cars that’s surprisingly roomy inside, if not a little messy. He could feel the handle of a baseball bat under his left foot. He pushed it to the back. </p><p> “It’s okay, Ian. Your car, your music,” Paolo said, straightening himself and his envelope on his seat. He counted the No. 2 Mongol pencils in his plastic envelope. </p><p> “Alrighty then,” Ian smiled at him as they exited Paolo’s village. He pulled out an unmarked cassette tape and put it inside the slot. “Hope you don’t mind a mixed tape.” <em>Hey Sandy</em> by Polaris came on. </p><p>Paolo recognized it immediately. “Hey! This is from <em>Adventures of Pete &amp; Pete!</em> I love that show!” </p><p> “Yeah? Me too! I love the episode where they wrote a science paper about this football player—”</p><p> “Johnny Unitas! Yeah! And about how, the radio waves of the football game in 1958 would reach Alpha Centauri in 1991!” </p><p>Ian glanced at Paolo, who was gleefully recounting the episode. In the years he’s known the boy—well, not ‘know’ exactly—but in the years he’s observed him, he could somehow tell that he was quiet. Meeting him that night, wow. He still hasn’t thanked God enough for making it happen, but at the same time, he couldn’t get enough. He knew he would absolutely regret not being Paolo’s friend, at least. Anything more than that, Ian couldn’t dare hope. </p><p>
  <em> But seeing him today, eyes seemingly lit from within, engaged in something that truly interested him, was an altogether different experience. It was like being shown the door to some secret, wonderful room. It made Ian hate himself for not talking to Paolo sooner, for not being braver a few years ago on that field. It made him swear to himself never to return to being strangers with this boy, who appeared to be made completely of magic. </em>
</p><p> “<em>Nag-</em>breakfast <em>ka na</em>, Paopao? We can drive through a McDonald’s or something…” He offered. </p><p> “Um, Ian?” Paolo asked, tentatively. </p><p> “Yeah?” </p><p> “Why do you call me Paopao?” Paolo wanted to take it back the moment it slipped out. The real question he wanted to ask was why that name did funny, twisty things to his insides. </p><p> “Uh…” Ian laughed a little, trying to find the words. “Well, I don’t know, really. Just stuck to my head when I first met you, I guess. I can go back to ‘Paolo’ if you want. I'm sorry if it's...It’s totally okay—”</p><p> “NO! It’s, it’s okay. No one’s called me Paopao before.” Paolo gave him a small smile. </p><p> “Okay then…” Ian kept his eyes on the road, the hammering in his chest making him grip the wheel tighter. </p><p>-----</p><p>They stood in front of the <em>Gusali ng Home Economics</em>, their assigned building for the UPCAT. “I’ll see you later, Paopao? You gonna be okay?” </p><p>Paolo nodded. “Yeah. Um, good luck, Ian.” </p><p> “Ditto! See ya!” Ian ran up to his room assignment. </p><p>-----</p><p>The first half of the exam was actually manageable, Paolo thought. Grueling at times, yes, but he was nervously optimistic. He wanted to stay inside the room to eat his packed lunch, but Ian had asked to have lunch together, so Paolo went out into the hallway to look for him. </p><p>Ian was on the lawn in front of the building. He was standing with a few of their batchmates. It looked like they were discussing the exam. One of them, Amy, a girl who Paolo knew as the editor-in-chief of their school paper, had her arm around Ian’s waist. Paolo found himself hiding behind one of the building’s columns. </p><p> “Guys, wait. Aren’t they supposed to have really good street food here? Let’s go find some,” Amy said cheerfully, curling her fingers against Ian’s shirt and looking up at him. </p><p>They looked good together, their group. They looked like if <em>Gimik</em> and <em>TGIS</em> morphed into two people, and somehow mated and produced 6 genetically perfect children. And who would Paolo be in this teen-aged show? Ian looked like he truly belonged there. This is his element. He was smiling widely, eyes crinkled in laughter at whatever joke someone else had cracked. </p><p>He looked back to the building, as if searching for someone. Paolo, retreated, going back to his classroom. That night, when they met, it was already enough. It <em>should</em> be enough. <em>Don’t be greedy, Paolo.</em> He sat back in his seat, and tried to read his small stack of reviewers.</p><p>He heard running footsteps across the hall.</p><p> “Hey.” Ian’s voice reverberated in the nearly-empty classroom. “Paopao?” </p><p> “Uy, Ian. Um, I think I’m going to stay here for lunch. I want to look at my reviewers one last time.” Paolo couldn’t meet Ian’s eyes. </p><p> “You sure? I can stay here, too, if you like. Let’s have lunch here.” </p><p><em>No, please.</em> “It’s okay, Ian. Really. I, uh, I’d like to review alone. Really.” </p><p>Ian regarded him curiously, and tried to hide the disappointment in his voice. “Okay. I’ll see you after the exam, then.” </p><p>After making sure that Ian had left the room, Paolo exhaled, slowly, and closed his eyes. He wanted to scold himself for the stray tear that wanted to escape. He wiped it angrily. <em>Just be thankful that you got to know him a little bit, Paolo.</em></p><p>-----</p><p>Paolo was exhausted. He considered beating a hasty retreat out of UP, but decided against it. It wasn’t in his nature to be unfair, and in the short time he’s known Ian, he’s certain the boy would look for him and worry in case he disappeared on him. </p><p>True enough, Ian was there, outside his classroom, looking as tired as he was. When he saw Paolo, he smiled. “Let’s go home?” Paolo nodded. </p><p>As they got to the car. Paolo spoke first. “Actually, Ian? Can you drop me off at Commonwealth?” </p><p>Ian couldn’t hide the shock in his voice. “What?” </p><p>Paolo took a deep breath. “Yeah. Um. I want to, I mean I need to practice commuting to and from UP, if I will be studying here. Dad helped me last weekend, actually. I just wanted to make sure I could do it alone.” </p><p>Ian looked crestfallen. “Now? You want to maybe grab some dinner first? I’m starving.” He tried to smile at Paolo. </p><p> “That’s okay, Ian. I’m sorry. I should have said it earlier. I really need to learn how to commute from QC to our house. But thanks for driving me here. Really.” </p><p>Wordlessly, Ian steered the vehicle out of the University. </p><p>In the bus going home, Paolo played his tape of Bach’s violin <em>partitas</em>, eager to drown out any and all thoughts that flit about in his head. </p><p>-----</p><p>When the mood strikes her, Ms. Reyes would ask Paolo to play with her; him on the violin, her on the piano. After their lesson, she asked him if they could play the <em>Jalousie,</em> a gypsy tango. </p><p>After Paolo played the last note, extending it as far as he could, Ms. Reyes was silent. </p><p> “Sublime,” she said after a few minutes. “Paolo, for your three audition pieces, I know you already have your heart set on <em>Csardas</em> for one of them. I like it; a strong piece. It shows off your skills most magnificently.” </p><p> “Thank you, Ma’am.” </p><p> “For your second piece, I suggest the <em>Jalousie.</em> You will have already shown them what you can do in your first piece. For the second, show them how you can make them feel. And this piece, this is <em>jealousy</em> expressed in strings. This is love, passion, hate, vulnerability—this is everything poured into three minutes of violin and piano. This is everything you want to feel as a human. Do you understand?” </p><p>Paolo nodded. “I think so, Ma’am.” </p><p> “Now. Do you have anything in mind for your third piece?” </p><p> “Uh, none yet. I don’t think I should have one yet. Not until I pass the UPCAT, Ma’am.” </p><p> “Ah, superstition. All right then. I will allow you your beliefs. Let’s continue this tomorrow.” </p><p>-----</p><p><em>I think I was being too pushy.</em> Ian was laying on his bed, wide awake at midnight. He’s already flayed, dissected, resected, and stitched up the whole day he spent with Paolo a few days ago, yet he still couldn’t figure out why the boy suddenly became as skittish as he first met him.</p><p>He was sure Paolo didn’t really need to commute on that exact day. He was so sure it was something else. But what? Ian grunted in his frustration. How could this already be ending when it never even got off the ground?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Voyager I</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>JLo and Miss Saigon (Manila Cast).</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h3>VI. Voyager I</h3><p>Matt twirled in front of Paolo, showing off his suit. They were in his room, a week before prom. This year’s theme is called, quite ominously, <em>Last Night of the World,</em> a rather obvious nod to the Y2K bug that everyone’s nervously talking about, and to <em>Miss Saigon,</em> which will be staged in Manila next year. </p><p> “So, what do you think? You like?” </p><p>Paolo regarded Matt carefully. “I like it, Matt. I thought an all-pink suit would be too...in-your-face, but this looks good on you.” </p><p>Matt grinned, pretty pleased with himself. “That’s ‘cause this isn’t pink-pink. This is <em>old rose.</em> I’m trying to make it a thing. And get this. My mom’s sewing me a <em>boutoniere</em> in salmon. That, plus the fact that she gave birth to all of this gorgeousness, makes her the coolest woman on earth.” He started to take off the ensemble, and carefully put the hanger back on the suit. </p><p> “How about you? Are you even going this year? Please tell me you’re not going to some poetry reading at <em>Sanctum</em> again. I mean, okay, not going on your junior year is kinda cool, it's kinda rebellious, but senior year? Join us, Paolooooo,” he mock cried. </p><p>Paolo remembered last year’s prom. He didn’t really want to go anyway, and when he saw a poster on campus for a poetry reading scheduled on the same day at Sanctum, a bar in Intramuros, he decided to go there instead. It was crowded, yes, but no one knew him there, and he wasn’t required to know anyone, and that was the kind of crowded he liked. </p><p> “But it was fun, Matt. And you know I don’t like these things. Besides, the PPO is having this thing for <em>Lola</em>. We’re all going.” </p><p>Paolo was in his sophomore year when his Lola died, at 73. They were told it was an aneurysm that had burst. His Mama was beside herself with grief, and so was Paolo. When his Papa told him that he was at least thankful that it was quick and painless, Paolo wanted to scream at him. In retrospect, Paolo knew he was right. It was just extremely difficult to reckon with the disappearance of one of the most enduring people in Paolo’s life. It took a while for him, but with everything going on in his life, and with Matt being his bridge to the world outside his own grief, Paolo was able to slowly recover. </p><p>Now, for her 75th birth anniversary, the Philippine Philharmonic Orchestra invited her family to a concert to commemorate one of their most iconic violinists. The concert, which is also the 4th concert of PPO’s season, happens to be on the date of their prom. </p><p> “Will you at least try to make it <em>after</em> the concert? I know I promised not talk about it anymore, but J told me that Ian—”</p><p> “Matt…” Paolo warned him with a look. </p><p> “Relax, Paolo. He was only asking if you’re going. I promised you that I won’t bring up the fact that you’ve been ignoring him for the past few weeks now, and I won’t. I also promised I won’t bring up the fact that even your bench and tree miss you, and I swear, I won’t. You can count on me Paolo. I won’t talk about Ian and the fact that he’s been asking—”</p><p>“Alright! Jeez! I get it. Matt. I so get it. Can you, just, please… just, don’t. Okay?” </p><p>Matt sat down on his bed beside Paolo, who was laying down with an arm across his eyes. “Okay. Okay, I hear you. Loud and clear. And I'm sorry. But Paolo?” Matt removed his arm and looked at the boy directly in the eye. “We will talk about this. When you’re ready. Okay? I mean, you…you are never required to carry anything by yourself ever. Not with me here. Okay?”</p><p>Paolo sniffled, nodding. </p><p> “Besides, anyone who has had to put up with my rendition of What’s Up is entitled to my full support and friendship.” Matt winked at Paolo, dropping the subject for now. “Come on, tell me what you’ll wear to this concert.” </p><p>-----</p><p>J was fidgeting with his bowtie again. And like a magnet, Matt’s hand went to that same hand and put it down, again. Ian shook his head. “Bro, if you fix that bowtie one more time, I will chop off your hand.” </p><p>J glared at him and turned to Matt. “You hear that, babe? He’s gonna chop off my hand,” he said, then put out his lower lip in a pout that looked ridiculous. Matt rolled his eyes. </p><p> “Hon, I’ll hand Ian the axe myself if you play with that bowtie. Again. For the 14th time.” He turned to face him and straightened the tie. “There. No touching. You look perfect.” J smiled at him.</p><p>Matt looked around the pavilion where the prom is being held. </p><p>“Wow, they went all out this year.” </p><p>J glanced around, agreeing. “Well, if the world ends next year, I guess we can say we had a hell of a time at our prom.” </p><p>Ian sighed, then looked down at the corsage in his hands, encased in glass. He wanted to believe Paolo would show up. He pestered and pestered Matt about him for days, asking if he’s going, who he’s going with, why he’s been distant lately, but Matt was like a locked vault. Finally, he broke his silence only to say that Paolo wasn’t going to the prom and that would be final. </p><p>The place looked magical, even Ian had to admit. It was festooned with all sorts of flowers and silk stripes. Everyone looked good. Some of the teachers even dressed up for the occasion, and were already dancing. </p><p>After a few minutes sitting around on their table, Matt stood up when a danceable beat came on. “Come on, cowboy,” he said to J and held out his hand. “I know the nuns and priests at this place won’t let us dance to a slow song, so let’s see your moves to a fast one.” </p><p> “Don’t have to ask me twice, pardner,” J said in a fake southern accent. Ian chuckled. </p><p>They looked good on the dance floor. Matt had a natural litheness to him, and managed to make every move he made somehow more graceful, effortless. J stuck to small, safe movements, ones he and Ian practiced at his house. The boy cleaned up pretty nicely, Ian thought, though he could still see some of the nervousness in him.</p><p>Ian, of course couldn’t be happier for the two. That day at UPCAT started everything for them, though for J, it started earlier than that. Ian had been there the first time J saw Matt, the way he gasped when they first heard him sing at Mass during freshman year, the same gasp J always seemed to do whenever Matt was in the general vicinity. And he could see that this early, Matt’s bringing out a different side from the normally serious and “all-business” Jason. He’s smiling more, and he’s even taken Matt to their games, waving at the boy from the stands when he got the chance. He just wished that that same day brought him the same luck, wished that the years they built around the boys would yield the same result for him. </p><p>-----</p><p>By the time 11p.m. rolled around, I guess one could say that everybody was already on a drunken haze of limbs and dancing. There was no alcohol, of course. Nevertheless, everyone acted in that way only highschoolers can, when they are finally allowed to let loose, bits of adolescent self-consciousness shaken off and surrendered to music. Ian, still wearing the plastic crown they put on his head as the elected Prom King, danced as a trio with Matt and J, all arms and screaming. When Jennifer Lopez’s <em>Waiting For Tonight</em> came on, everyone went wild. </p><p>Ian’s eyes were closed, his head turned up. While everyone was dancing, he kind of swayed with the music. Matt could see a tear that was about fall from his right eye. </p><p> “Hey. You okay?” Matt tapped him on the shoulder and whispered something. “What?” was all he could say, as he couldn’t hear Matt over the din of everything. The boy dragged him out of the crowd. </p><p> “His Lola.” </p><p> “What?” </p><p>“Paolo’s gramma. They’re having a concert for her at CCP.” Matt looked at his watch and ran to their table. “It should be wrapping up right about now.” He pressed the corsage on Ian’s hand.</p><p> “Why?” was all Ian could muster. </p><p> Matt sighed. “Because…because you both could use a prom in your life. Go. And if you tell him I told you, I’ll…well, he will know it was me. Just go.” </p><p>-----</p><p>CCP’s just a few blocks away from the Manila Hotel, where their prom was. Ian parked the car in the lot behind CCP and ran out, only to rush back and toss his crown back at the car. He was about to reach the CCP’s side entrance when a black car blocked his view and parked in front of the entrance. It was the same black car that always picks Paolo up after school, at his bench. As he got nearer, he tried to side-step the car and go to the other side of it. As he did, he could see Paolo, his mom, and a young girl in the entrance. They each got in the car and was off before Ian could reach them. </p><p>He went back to his car and sat beside it, his back leaning on the driver side door. He wanted to hurt something, kick something, but his car was a gift from his dad and they just had it repainted. So Ian did the next best thing and screamed in frustration. Baseball taught him to be superstitious. No changing of schedules before the game, always use his lucky bat for the first inning, or his lucky glove, that sort of thing. And this was sending him all sorts of superstitions. He closed his eyes. Was he wrong? To want Paolo in this way? He felt like an intruder to the boy’s life. Maybe Paolo was a rocket, taking off, on his own journey, one that didn’t include him. Maybe Paolo didn’t want to include him. And who was he to change a rocket's trajectory?</p><p>His team booked a few rooms at the hotel for an after-party, but after sitting with his car for hours, Ian stood up, put his mixtape in, and drove home.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Pale Blue Dot</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The playlist isn't mandatory listening, of course, but you may want to listen to Mazzy Star's Fade Into You for this chapter.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h3>VII. Pale Blue Dot</h3><p>“You know, if computers really did stop working last January 1, you would have been perfectly fine,” Matt said, looking around Paolo’s room, with its stacks of paper and hand-written notes, music books penciled and marked by the boy’s hand. “You probably would be up here in your room, fiddling away,” he chuckled.</p><p> “I just like writing things by hand. Besides, typing musical notes feels weird.” Paolo looked around the room to make sure he didn’t forget anything. There was a small knock on his door, followed by his Mama’s head poking in. </p><p> “Hi, boys. Are you ready?” </p><p>Matt looked at Paolo. “Hi, Tita. That depends on the man of the hour.” He looked at Paolo. “We ready?” </p><p> “As we’ll ever be.” </p><p>It was an unseasonably chilly March morning that greeted them as they went out of the house, <em>en route</em> to the University of the Philippines College of Music. Last month, they received the good news: Paolo passed the UPCAT, as well as the music theory and the <em>solfege</em> examinations. All that’s left now is frankly the most important part, to Paolo at least: the audition. </p><p>Matt passed as well, and so did J and Ian, as Matt had told Paolo. But the boys had been recruited by Ateneo for its baseball team, and when they passed the Ateneo college entrance test, they were officially announced as the newest incoming members of the team. </p><p> “I still can’t believe you’re going to La Salle, Matt,” Paolo said as they buckled their seatbelts in. “Is this teenage rebellion? Are you trying to move as far away from me as you possibly can?” </p><p> “Aww, you’re gonna miss me? This is the first time I’m hearing about this “missing your best friend” hullabaloo.” Matt laughed. “As I told you before, I am not passing up the chance to study Communication Arts with the best artists of this age. And most of them happen to be in Taft.” </p><p>Matt was being modest, Paolo thought. He also happened to be in the Top 50 of the exam-takers of the DLSU entrance exams and was considered a “Star Scholar” in the school. There was no way he was going to pass up the scholarship. </p><p> “And don’t you for a second think I won’t drag your sorry ass—I mean, butt,” Matt looked sheepishly at Mr. Pangilinan on the wheel, “to Taft. I need to show you off to all the Lasallians. They’d be falling all over you!” Paolo rolled his eyes and giggled. </p><p>-----</p><p> “Mr. Paolo Victor Pangilinan, to the stage, please,” A loud voice announced on the intercom. </p><p>His dad rose from his seat and handed him his bag. “Knock ‘em dead, son. We’re so proud of you.” Paolo gave his dad a quick, tight hug. </p><p> “We’ll see you at the auditorium. G’luck!” Matt said, giving him two thumbs up. </p><p>Paolo adjusted his jacket and bowtie and walked onstage. “G-good morning, distinguished judges.” He took a deep breath and gathered himself before speaking again. “I would be playing three pieces for the violin. The first—”</p><p> “Mr. Pangilinan, a moment please.” A female voice said from the seats in front. He couldn’t see very well into the audience because of the lights on him, which proved to be a good thing for his nerves. </p><p> “We understand that you will be playing Monti’s <em>Csardas</em>, Gade’s <em>Tango Jalousie</em>, and an original composition of yours, <em>Late Heavy Bombardment</em>. We didn’t know you could apply for two specializations.” A few laughs could be heard from the judges. </p><p>"Oh no, Ma’am. I am not applying for a composition spot in the College,” Paolo said nervously. “Just violin.” </p><p> “And what is ‘Late Heavy Bombardment,’ Mr. Pangilinan?” </p><p> “Musically, it is a sonata, Ma’am.” </p><p> “And thematically? What is it to you?” </p><p>Paolo hesitated for a few seconds before speaking. “It was originally an elegy. I named it after an event that supposedly happened 4 billion years ago, where a large number of terrestrial bodies—asteroids—pelted the moon and our planet, wreaking havoc, nearly destroying half of the solar system but also paving the way for life to form on earth in its wake. Then as I was writing and rewriting its structures, its notes, somehow it ended up as a serenade. I think,” Paolo laughed a bit, and blushed. </p><p> “A serenade? Oh my. From the depths of destruction to love. May we request that you play it first, then the other pieces after?” Paolo nodded. “You may begin.” </p><p>Paolo didn’t need to read his music sheet to play the piece. It was the result of four years’ worth of music. Paolo thought instead of how the piece came to be. </p><p>It started from the random scribbles of that first day in high school. It started from the despair of once again being alone, but in a stranger place, as a stranger. It built itself around friendship, the people he met, the music of his youth. And in its core was the first person he met in high school who truly looked at him. </p><p>As he worked his way to the next part of the piece, Paolo realized that Ian was imbued in the very music that he created. As though Ian was a drop of blue ink and Paolo’s life was a glass of water. Each day he saw Ian, saw his movements and mannerisms, talked to him, heard him, felt him, he didn’t realize that Ian was stitching himself to Paolo, his life. He was making himself impossible to extricate from Paolo. </p><p>As the piece progressed, Paolo could no longer discern what memory triggered what part of the piece, what event gave birth to this <em>tremolo,</em> what heartbreak caused this hold, this stop on the strings. All he’s sure of is that it’s Ian in there, in his music. </p><p>When he ended, Paolo was almost out of breath, beads of sweat started to form on his face, eyes shut tight. </p><p>He didn’t think he’d have enough energy to sustain the two other pieces, but this was a culmination of his life’s work—so far, at least. He pushed past the two pieces with an intensity he didn’t think he could summon. </p><p>There was no applause after he finished. This was an audition, after all. Hurriedly, Paolo went down from the stage after he was told that he would receive the admission results after two weeks. </p><p>As he went out of the auditorium, his Papa was there, along with Matt and J, who was still wearing his muddy baseball uniform. </p><p> “J! Hi. Uh, what are you doing here?” </p><p>J ducked his head, a bit embarrassed. “Hi, Paolo. I had to see Matt. We won the championship!” The three of them screamed and did an awkward dance in the hallway. Matt quipped, “My baby hit a three-pointer!” J rolled his eyes and hugged him. </p><p> “Is he—?” Paolo didn’t know how to end the question. But he knew he had to see Ian. </p><p> “Um, that’s the thing, Paolo. We can’t find him! After the game, we said we’d meet at the hotel that the school booked for us to celebrate. But no one can find him.” J looked at Paolo worriedly. </p><p>Paolo turned to his Papa, a wordless question between them. His Papa smiled. “Go with them, <em>'nak</em>. I’ll see you at home.” Paolo hugged him and kissed his cheek. “THANK YOU!” </p><p> “I think I know where he is.” </p><p>-----</p><p> “Are you sure you want us to drop you off here, at night?” Matt asked Paolo. “As in really, really sure?” </p><p> “Yeah. You guys go on to the hotel. I’ll follow you guys there if I can’t find him.” Paolo exited J’s car. </p><p><em>God, I hope I’m right.</em> Paolo started walking into their school, the university grounds.</p><p>As he got to the west edge of their field, he could see someone throwing balls in the air and then hitting them with a bat, illuminated by the field’s floodlights. <em>Ian.</em> Paolo’s head was swimming with words. He was filled so many things he wanted to say that he wobbled a bit on his walk.</p><p>Ian’s back was turned to him, so Paolo paused for a bit when he got close. Ian got another baseball, threw it up in the air, and with a mighty grunt, swung his bat at it before it touched the ground. </p><p> “Congratulations.” Paolo said, quietly, so as not to spook Ian too much. "I heard you guys got the championship." The boy didn’t turn around in shock, like Paolo had expected. Instead, with his back to Paolo, Ian’s shoulders slumped a little bit. </p><p>He asked, “How was your audition?” </p><p>Paolo walked a bit closer. “It went okay, I think. I’ll know in two weeks. They’re looking for you. Your teammates. They said—”</p><p>Ian suddenly turned to him. “What are you doing here, Paolo? Really. Why are you here?” </p><p>He looked like a wreck. It looked like he came here straight from the game, his uniform as muddy, if not muddier than J’s, his face streaked with sweat, or tears, Paolo couldn’t tell. He looked absolutely exhausted. Paolo wanted to take him in his arms, he looked so pitiful. </p><p>He spoke again before Paolo could respond. “You probably don’t remember this but I met you our first day of freshman year. You were on that bench riiiight over there,” he pointed with his bat, “and someone had pitched a fastball.” </p><p> “I remember.” Paolo swallowed the lump in his throat. “You dove in front of me. Then you stood up like nothing happened.” </p><p>Ian gave a dry laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes. The sound of it broke Paolo’s heart a little. Ian took a deep breath and continued. “You know, I’m gonna say this just because it’s the last month of our high school life and you probably won’t see me again, or want to see me again, but when I saw you that day, I thought, man, I’m gonna make sure that I give that boy all the love he deserves. I know, it’s so cheesy. But I was young, you know? And when I finally met you, oh wow. Didn’t think I could be in any deeper, but yeah, I guess it was still possible.” </p><p>Paolo stared at him in shock, unable to form any thoughts, let alone words. </p><p> “Then you started hanging out in that bench, and I would see you during practice. I used to tell myself so many times,<em>Today’s the day I’ll talk to him.</em> But I kept chickening out.” He laughed a little to himself. “Maybe I was right.” </p><p> “Right about what?” Paolo inquired. </p><p> “Paolo, I know I am…not…I know you don’t like me. It took a while for it to sink in, because, you know, when you’ve been carrying something for someone for so long, your thinking gets a little loopy. You start to think, maybe there’s a chance. You know? You start to hope a little.” </p><p>Paolo felt like he was being punched by each sentence coming from Ian. This…this isn’t possible, his head kept repeating to itself. Ian and him, they’re just not meant to be. Ian belonged to another universe, one with sunshine and laughter and an eternal spring or something. Paolo doesn't. He's too silent, too reticent, he will cast a pall over that universe, should he ever venture there. But here Ian is, dismantling that notion. Here he is, showing him the way, inviting him in. He tried, he dared to get closer to Ian. When they were face-to-face, he gently took the bat from him and let it fall to the ground. </p><p>He placed his arms on top of Ian’s shoulders and hugged him close. When the boy remained motionless, he guided his arms around his waist. They remained rooted in that spot for a few minutes until Paolo released his hug. </p><p>When Ian looked at him questioningly, Paolo spoke. “We never got to dance at the prom.” He fished his earphones from his pocket and placed one on his ear and the other on Ian’s. Then pressed ‘Play’ on his Walkman. Mazzy Star’s <em>Fade Into You</em> started playing as Paolo laid his head on Ian’s shoulder and started swaying. </p><p> “I heard this from your mixtape.” </p><p>Slowly, Ian started tightening his grip around Paolo’s waist. He put his face on the crook of Paolo’s neck and smiled against the skin there. </p><p>Paolo mumbled something that Ian couldn’t hear clearly so he lifted his head back and looked at Paolo. “Sorry?” </p><p>Paolo looked at him with tears in his eyes. “I love you, Ian. Always have. I’m sorry it took a while for me to, I’m sorry I didn’t have the words, I’m sorry I couldn’t—”</p><p> “You’re here, Paopao. You love me and you’re here.” Ian said, taking Paolo's face in his hands, and kissed him. </p>
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<a name="section0008"><h2>8. The Men Who Fell To Earth (An Epilogue)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Paopao &amp; Yanyan</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h3>VIII. The Men Who Fell To Earth</h3><p>Paolo gathered his things quickly, making sure he didn’t leave anything on his desk. Surprisingly, only two out of six professors showed up for first day of class. He was told by some classmates that this is somehow normal in college, but Paolo doubted it. Is there a bug going around? </p><p> “Hey. Paolo, right?” Someone behind him tapped his shoulder. </p><p>Paolo turned around. “Hi. Yeah…?” In front of him was a classmate: tall, with wide eyes in round glasses. He was holding on to a large binder notebook, a guitar strapped on one of his shoulders. </p><p> “Hello? You needed to talk to me?” Paolo tried again. </p><p>The guy blushed furiously but recovered quick. “Renz. Heh. That’s me. Renz. Hi.” An offered hand. Paolo shook it tentatively. </p><p> “I, uh, a couple of us from the block were thinking of going to CASAA. Wanna join us?” </p><p>Paolo smiled at him. <em>Friends.</em> He can’t believe how easy this is. But. </p><p> “I’m sorry, Renz. I can’t today. Tomorrow?” </p><p> “S-sure, Pao. Can I call you Pao?” Paolo nodded, earning a smile from Renz.</p><p>They walked out of the building together, a step behind their blockmates. Renz was telling Paolo about why he decided to major in Guitar when somebody shouted across from them, near the parking lot. </p><p> “Paopao! Over here!” It was Ian, walking towards them from his parked car. </p><p> “Hi, Yanyan!” As a joke, Paolo coined the nickname for Ian right around the time they became official. He thought it unfair that only he has a nickname and started calling his boyfriend ‘Yanyan.’ Ian surprisingly liked it and made Paolo use it all the time. </p><p> “Paopao. There you are.” He smiled at Paolo and looked at Renz guardedly. He pulled Paolo by the shoulders and stuck him to his side. “Hi there, I’m Ian.” He held out his left hand for a handshake. </p><p> “This is Renz, Yanyan. He’s my blockmate. Renz, this is Ian. He, uh, he’s my boyfriend.” Renz’s eyes widened for a split-second then he smiled. Ian seemed to stand a little taller upon hearing what Paolo said, his chest a little puffed up. </p><p> “Hi, Ian. Nice to meet you.” Ian nodded at him, smiling. </p><p> “Ready to go, Paopao? We have to be at Taft by 6. Matt said to meet us at UM, remember?” </p><p>Paolo, of course, remembered. Matt’s been pestering them to visit him in his school ever since his classes started. Because he was in a trimestral schedule, his classes started a full three weeks before Paolo’s did. </p><p> “I’m ready. Renz, thanks for the invite. Sorry I can’t make it today. Really. It was nice to meet you.” Paolo grinned at him. </p><p> “No worries, Pao. See you.” </p><p>-----</p><p> “Invite? ‘Pao’?” Ian asked, when Renz was out of earshot. </p><p> “Yeah. A couple of our blockmates wanted to eat at CASAA.” He glanced at Ian, who was looking down at his shoes. That can’t be. There’s no way… “Yanyan…are you jealous?” </p><p>Ian scoffed. “<em>Sus!</em> Me? Jealous? Nahhh.” </p><p> “Oh wow. You are! Look at you! You’re positively fuming,” Paolo giggled gleefully, and pinched Ian’s cheek. “You’re so red! Your face is burning up!” </p><p> “I am not!” </p><p> “Not red or not jealous? </p><p> “Both. Jeez!” When they reached Ian’s car, Paolo buckled up and looked at him again. </p><p> “Yanyan…seriously.” He cupped Ian’s chin. “I love you.” </p><p> “Do you need me to give you a solo performance of LHB again?” </p><p>Ian’s eyes closed at the memory. After they danced at the field that night, Paolo sat Ian down at his bench, and took out his violin. “I’m not much for words, Ian,” he said, “but I composed this one with you and for you.” He played the piece he earlier played for the audition. When Paolo finished, he walked up to the seated Ian, stood in front of him and placed his forehead against his. They stayed like that for a long time, once in a while kissing each other’s cheek, forehead, or lips. </p><p>Opening his eyes in the present, he saw Paolo looking at him with the clearest intensity. “No need, Paopao. I recorded it, remember?” He took out a cassette tape, the label “Mixtape 1” crossed out and replaced with <em>Late Heavy Bombardment by Paopao,</em> and put it inside the deck before pulling into the road and driving away.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for reading. It is, of course, a work of fiction. Gratitude, as always, to the real Paolo and Ian Pangilinan. For allowing us into their lives. To Matt and Jase as well for the kilig moments. Hehe. To the team behind Gaya Sa Pelikula. The fact that your series birthed so many AUs, fics, and sub-stories, is a testament to its quality.</p><p>To N, I tried to write what it would have been like if we met in High School. You're the best curveball life has given me. Maybe you can teach me to play sometime.</p><p>To you, dear reader. For your time, your attention, your understanding. I am eternally grateful. </p><p>If you want me to add translations of Filipino phrases or add context to some expressions of Filipino origin, please let me know; I would be happy to.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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